


Ode to the Sky

by ghostmaya



Category: Majo no Takkyuubin | Kiki's Delivery Service
Genre: Backstory, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, Natural Disasters, No Dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:35:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23696284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostmaya/pseuds/ghostmaya
Summary: Ursula's journey as an artist, as told through her art, and through her love of the sky.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10





	Ode to the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this drabble for a zine application a while back, and really liked how it turned out. The scene in Kiki's Delivery Service when Ursula compared Kiki's loss of flight to when she had artist's block really struck a chord with me, and I wanted to explore what that block might have looked like. I also experimented a lot with descriptive writing and imagery, and a different form of storytelling than what my usual go to is, so if you're familiar with any of my other fics this one is very different. I thought I might as well post it up in case anyone out there is interested!

Ursula always had her head in the sky. 

She loved the daytime, when the sky was a bright blue, the clouds white and full, a picture-perfect day to lie in the field, a canvas in front of her, and her paint kit beside her. There were people there too, homemade kites dotting and dashing between the leaves that blew in the wind, and birds flying south or north depending on the time of year. As the years dragged on, planes and zeppelins started ploughing their way across the sky, paving a lazy trail onto her landscapes. 

Dawn and twilight brought out the warm colours: pinks, oranges, reds, yellows, and the sky was on fire. The ocean was on fire too, and the sand on the beach sparkled. The wind picked up, and stuck bits and pieces of sand and ocean spray on her paintings, bringing them to life. When she turned her back, the city was on fire too, the brick, wood and concrete silhouetting the gleam of red fury that blazed from behind. 

Most days though, Ursula painted the night; it was her favourite shade. She would lay outside for hours, counting the stars, looking for shapes that didn’t exist between them. Her paints were always next to her, but they weren’t always used. Sometimes, when she wasn’t feeling like herself, she’d bring her sketchpad instead of her canvas and chart the stars; sketching people and animals and meaningless shapes between the lines. When she  _ did _ paint, her canvas would become a sea of rich blues and purples, sporting luminescent fish of bright yellows and reds and whites. When she sat at the beach, the ocean was the sky just as much as the sky was the ocean, and they melded together into a landscape of fantasy.

The beach was only in her earlier paintings. As the buildings rose up and the zeppelins mowed on through the sky; enriching her day, her dawn, her dusk, the lights turned on in the night, and the stars started going out. The city she lived in stole the stars, bringing them down, twisting the magnificent shapes of creatures, of heroes, of  _ herself _ into street lights, a household, a crosswalk, a traffic light. When Ursula brought out her sketchpad, protractor, rulers, there were gaps between the stars. Her heroes became pedestrians drinking their morning coffee, and her magical beasts became house cats on fences. Her colours started dipping into browns, greys, and muted palettes; her hand cramped after hours of work, and her head began to ache from the paint fumes. It was a slow shift. She wasn’t sure when it happened, but painting became a chore. So, she packed up her brushes, her empty and half-done canvases, and stowed them away.

Years went by, and one day, the wind picked up and shook the city, its foundations, even the oceans. It left homes destroyed, Ursula’s included. The electricity went out. The city couldn’t operate; the food spoiled, traffic stopped, everything was black. In that darkness, Ursula found herself by the sea, staring up at a painting that existed only in her sketch pads and old paintings tucked away under the rubble that used to be her home. The deep purple and blue brushstrokes in the sky sang in the darkness, the sky regaining its light from where it was stolen below. It was a seascape of stars, illuminating both the sky and ocean. As she looked up at that brilliant scene, she stepped back into her childhood, where the stars came alive. It was a tragedy, yes, but as the salty wind ruffled her hair, and the star-kissed waves lapped at her feet, she didn’t feel any remorse for what she had lost. 

Instead, for the first time in years, Ursula had the greatest urge to get out a stool, an easel, a blank canvas, and  _ paint. _

**Author's Note:**

> find me on social media here:  
> [tumblr](https://ghost-maya.tumblr.com/)  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/ghostmayaa)


End file.
